With more neuroses than a packed train in Rome and a family so fractured it’s a wonder they can find the door, our dear Vero dances through memory like it’s a drunk uncle at a wake.

Her lies are so charmingly candid, you’d think she was trying to seduce your sympathy, and half the time you’re not sure whether to laugh or reach for the smelling salts.

A comic bit of autofiction that flirts shamelessly with truth—and leaves you restless, amused, and oddly tender to its slippery heart.